


Triptych, Variations on a Theme

by Romany



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-07
Updated: 2004-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romany/pseuds/Romany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not exactly blood and roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptych, Variations on a Theme

“You can’t feel a thing yet, can you?” Angel seethed. “And you think you’re going home? You can’t even look after yourself.” He paused, furious. “I taught you better than that.”

Spike tried to pick at the bandages, failed. “Can’t rightly stay here. I’ll go stark raving.”

“Then come upstairs,” Angel suggested.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Have me whenever you want me then. Just like old times. No thank you, Angel, I’m goin’ home.” Came out more petulant, more honest than he intended.

“It’s not like that,” he said softly. Angel moved to the side of the infirmary bed then, spared only one glance down. “Besides, I never did *this* to you.”

Yeah, too much reminiscing about the old days...And it was true. Angelus had never chopped off his feet or hands, never gouged out an eye. Did it to others, the baggage, the minions. Liked to travel light. Took pleasure in the damage he left behind. Threatened Spike with it, surely. ‘You’ve got beautiful hands, boy...’ But never did it. Demanded other things for his indulgence. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Still can’t go up there with you. You know that.”

“Do it anyway,” Angel said. “Think of all the ways you can piss me off.”

“There is that,” Spike conceded. And they went upstairs...

After Angel changed Spike’s dressings, his mouth a grim line, “You’re a moron. Have I told you that already?”

Spike sighed, “Many times.”

Angel brushed his fingertips over the bandages where the scars would be. “Does it hurt much?”

“Hurts like fuck. I’ll get over it though.”

“You’re a moron...” Angel’s voice broke slightly, he placed a hand on the side of Spike’s face.

Spike looked away, trembled. “No, Da. Don’t.”

The morphine made him say things like ‘please’ and ‘Da’ and ‘thank you.’ Made him lean back into Angel’s touch.

“Don’t...” he said again.

And so they did nothing for a good long while...

“Can I get you anything?” Angel said finally.

“You could speed my recovery a bit,” Spike said nodding at the slight tent in the pajama bottoms he only agreed to wear because of the pain. ‘Comfortable,’ he had said reluctantly.

“You sure you’re up for that?” Angel placed his hand on Spike’s rising cock. Unbuttoned, freed it. Swiped his thumb along the head. “Sure?”

“‘M always up for it.” He paused, the morphine words coming out of his mouth. “‘Sides, what else is there, ‘tween us?”

“If you don’t know then you really are a moron.” And with that, he dipped his head and sucked. Licked Spike up and down like he meant it. Made him hiss between his teeth, “Fuck, Angel...”

Afterwards, Angel sat by the edge of the bed. “Better?”

Spike said nothing for a minute. Then, “S’not exactly blood and roses with us, is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.”

And they did nothing for a good long while...

 

So Spike was kicking back with that Doyle fellow, having a few beers. Had saved an old bat from a Krexla demon. Hard, messy work, that, and the old biddy didn’t even say ta. Just sniffed her nose at the mess. Didn’t matter none. It was good to get his hand in again. And the helping the hopeless part? He got that now. He really did.

Doyle said, “You did good tonight, Spike. You should be proud of yourself. Someone else is alive because of you.” He took a swig from the longneck, patted Spike on the knee.

“Me, a champion...who’d’ve thought?” Spike had bandied the word about in his head a bit. Liked to throw it at Angel, make him wince, but still didn’t sit right. Wondered briefly if Angel felt like this, in the beginning.

“So how long have you been fucking him?” Doyle asked, sidelong, then going for another swig.

Spike swung around, “What are you natterin’ on about?” Him and Angel, wasn’t exactly public knowledge. Yeah, he’d crawled right back into that old Spike-closet. Could explain that restless feeling he got when Angel didn’t invite him up. Familiar, is all.

“Angel,” Doyle said. “How long have you been fucking Angel?”

Spike stood, whirled around, jabbed his finger neatly into Doyle’s chest. “One–who says that me and Angel are fucking? Two–who says that’s any of your business?”

Doyle leaned back and smiled. Locked eyes with Spike and downed the rest of his beer. “It is my business because it affects the mission. Angel’s not playing the game any more, Spike. The Powers kicked him off the team.” He leaned forward and Spike pulled back. “You see, a guy like Angel confuses things. Remember, there are two vampires with a soul now. Angel, he likes to play it so he’s the only guy in town.” He motioned for Spike to sit back down. And he did. “He’s not the important one here. You are. Don’t let him get to your head.”

Spike leaned back. “Maybe we are, maybe we’re not. Even if we are shagging, makes no difference to what I do out there.”

“Naw, of course not, Spike...But I know Angel,” Doyle said, blue eyes glittering.

“What do you know about Angel?” Spike asked, something not sitting right with him about this whole conversation.

“I know he gets first pick of the goods. Always.”

“So what are you sayin’, exactly?” Spike asked, feeling a sudden rush of fear that Doyle was going to tell him to give all that up. Not that he cared for Angel particularly. He just didn’t like being told what to do.

“I’m saying maybe you should diversify. Try something else for a while.” And with that he toyed with the top button on his shirt and stared hard at Spike, challenging.

“Got someone in mind, then?” Spike asked. Could tell what the game was . Mere formalities, at this point.

“Damn straight,” said Doyle and he leaned in, eyes already half-lidded.

And why not? Not like he had a ring or some such on his finger. He didn’t owe Angel a damn thing. They were just passing the time, is all.

“Not big on the kissin’,” Spike said. Didn’t know where that came from. Quite talented in that area, actually. Used to kiss Buffy until they were drunk from it. Same with Angel now. Snogged between shags quite a bit with him.

Doyle grinned. “Hey, it’s not the junior prom, guy. I get that.” And his hand went straight towards Spike’s cock...

Spike had him on his knees on the couch, hands against the wall. Doyle was giving as good as he got, meeting each thrust with a little extra, as if this were all a dare. “Fuck, Spike, go for it. I’m not a kid, I can take it.”

“You want it?” Spike said, driving in harder, hands on Doyle’s hips. “You want more?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Doyle panted, starting to sweat and shiver. Just fever-hot all over.

And damn if Spike’s gameface didn’t pull down. He ran the ridges of his forehead along one of Doyle’s shoulders. “Oh God...” Doyle said in a voice approaching a whine. Spike did it again. “Oh godohgodohgod.” And one of Doyle’s hands flew off that wall and dove to his cock.

So that’s the way it was, was it? Boy had a fetish. He ran just the tips of his fangs along Doyle’s neck.

“Do it!” he screamed. “Fuck you, just do it!”

Spike clamped one hand over Doyle’s mouth. Breathed in the sharp tang of fear and imminent orgasm. And because he had a bit of the old bastard in him, he said, very quietly, “No.”

So Doyle screamed until Spike’s fingers vibrated with the shock and came all over his couch.

And just to prove he had a bit of the old bastard in him again, Spike made sure he lasted longer, until Doyle squirmed with discomfort. “That’s it,” he said. And he came.

As soon as he pulled out, Doyle whipped around and kissed him. Hard.

“Hey, thought I said...”

Doyle grinned, “I like to get kissed when I get fucked. And Spike, that was a Grade A fuck.”

Spike only said, “You’re goin’ to get that taken care of, right?” indicating the come-stain on the couch. “It’s brand new.”

When Doyle got dressed and was heading out the door, he turned around, smiled to himself. Paused. And said, “Spike, you’re a lot more like your old man than you think.” And then he left.

Spike stood there. What the fuck was that all about? Shrugged it off and cleared the empties from the table.

 

 

Spike stood about the office while everyone gave each other condolences, reminisced about Cordelia. Didn’t know the bird that well so didn’t know what to say, rightly. Near broke his heart to see Fred crying about it. Even Harmony managed a sniffle or two. 

Knew Angel was taking it hard. Could see the way he looked at her yesterday. All sunsets, it was. Cue the rising music and such. Just thought they were busy reuniting when they didn’t show up at the Cat and Fiddle. Thought at the time, ‘Good for them, yeah?’ Meant one less in line for a certain Slayer and Angel taken care of without a stake. Don’t get him wrong, he’d miss the shags and all, but he didn’t mind finishing up business in L.A. and clearing out for other parts like Europe.

Didn’t explain why he knocked in a few car windows in the bar parking lot when he went out for a fag. Didn’t explain why he walked all the way back to that mockery of a flat instead of going back in for another pint with the mates. Sat there watching telly, throwing back some scotch. Lies, all of it. Puppet champion, he was. And alone. Wallowed that way for a good long while.

So yeah, he knew Angel was taking it hard. Bugger stayed in his office most of the day. After everyone cleared out, Spike went in to see Angel’s broad back, his folded arms, watching the buildings outside, their lights. And after considerable silence, Spike said, “Wondered why you didn’t pop by the pub last night. Just figured you and her...” And he let it fade from there. Couldn’t rightly stay. Couldn’t rightly go. Excruciating, it was.

“She’s gone,” Angel said to the necro-tempered glass. “She’s gone,” he repeated. “And you fucked him.” Angel paused for a considerable bit. “You fucked him. Jesus, Spike, don’t you wash?”

No use denying. “One had nothin’ to do with the other, Angel. You know that.”

And the voice of Angel’s back said, “He used his ass as a smokescreen, Spike. All you’ve ever been about is your fangs and your dick.”

“Left out the fists part,” Spike reminded him.

“I loved her,” Angel told the window. “I loved her. What do *you* know about any of that?”

“I know some. Can’t bring up any examples that you want to hear.” Funny, that. Even in the Opera House, Spike wasn’t above it–the examples. “Know what it’s like to lose a girl.”

“That had everything to do with your dick too, Spike.”

Bit his tongue not to answer that one. Bit his fucking tongue hard to keep all the ‘fuck you’s’ from coming out. Knew a bit about grief. Should just leave the man to it. “Right. I’ll just scarper off then.” And Spike turned to go.

“Don’t you dare walk out that fucking door.” Angel’s back said.

Spike turned around, “Look, Angel, we talk or I go. It’s simple, yeah? One or the other, make up your mind.”

Angel’s back said nothing. Didn’t move, but Spike could see the semaphore riding off his poncy designer sports coat. Man could always orate without saying a word. 

“Right.” Spike turned to go again.

Spike was halfway out the door again when he was pulled back in and the office door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the hinges. Angel spun him around and spat out, “I thought I told you not to walk out that door.”

“And I thought I told you to make up your mind.” Spike pushed him back just hard enough to make his point. He wasn’t the little fledge to be shoved this way and that without a never-you-mind anymore. That was ancient history. “If you want to talk, fine. Man to man. Here we are. But if you think I’m just goin’ to stand here and watch your wardrobe collect lint, I’ve got better things to do.”

But Angel wasn’t backing down. He had Spike by the lapels now, leaning in, menacing. “Everything you do pisses me off. Do you think I could ever *talk* to you? Did I say I wanted to *talk*? Christ, Spike, what ever gave you that idea?” And his mouth was on Spike’s before Spike could push him away again.

Shock opened Spike’s mouth so that Angel’s tongue found easy entrance. They had left this dance behind a short time ago. Shagging irregular, they were. No need for this. 

He shoved the duster halfway down Spike’s arms and pushed him towards the floor. Too late to save himself from the fall, Spike tried to roll out from under as his head bounced off the carpet. Angel must have already thought of that because he had his knees digging into the outside of Spike’s thighs, preventing the rotation. His left forearm held Spike’s chest down while his right hand started to fumble at Spike’s waistband. Spike started to wriggle, trying for leverage. Angel just pressed down harder. Spike felt one rib crack. He tried to roll his head free, but Angel just abandoned the jeans, grabbed the bleached hair with one fist and held him in place. The tongue still swirling, angry, insistent.

So Spike did the only thing he could: pulled down the gameface and bit the arsehole. Hard. Shook Angel up enough to take some of the pressure off and damn, if he didn’t fling that bastard across the room?

“S’not that way anymore, Da. Told you that before.” 

Angel stood up, leaned into that invisible wall between them. “Isn’t that the way it was with that little shit? Can’t imagine you being gentle, Spike.”

“Don’t imagine it at all, Angel!” Spike looked down at his hands in feigned shock. “Look at that, would you?” He wiggled the fingers of his left hand in the air. “Must still be in the shop. Gettin’ it sized.”

“You wish, you needy little shit,” Angel gritted out while taking a few steps closer.

“Wait, Angel, who’s the little shit, me or him? Can’t keep us straight?” Spike closed the gap between them. “No wonder. Dipped into that yourself, didn’t you?”

“Oh, is that what that was about? Crawling in after your dear old Dad?” Angel grinned, venomous. “You’re nothing but a greedy little boy. Always were.”

Spike paused for effect, smiling himself. “So what pisses you off more? The fact that I fucked him? Or that you never fucked her?”

With that Angel was on top of him, punching his face in a staccato rhythm. “Don’t you ever, ever talk that way about her! She was better than that!” He kept punching. “You hear me? Better!”

Spike kicked up into Angel’s crotch hard enough to make the fucker blink, rolled out from under and onto his knees. Wiped the blood off his face with both hands. Stood up slowly and rolled the duster off his shoulders, kicked off his Docs. Took the rest of his kit off. “Tell you what, Angel. Won’t kick your face in, this bein’ a day of mournin’ and all. Let’s just skip to the end of this.” And with that he turned and gripped the back of one of the armchairs, stuck his bum out. “Go on, bugger me. Let me know when you’re done, yeah?”

Could hear Angel strip off his clothes, rummage angrily through a drawer. Could smell that pansy-arse lotion Angel used. Refused to look. Stronger than that.

“You wanna fuck, Spike? You wanna fuck somebody? Huh? You wanna fuck?”

Spike tensed a bit. Waited for the fingers or cock to jab in.

Instead Angel’s hand reached around. Lathered Spike’s cock up with the hand lotion until it was hard despite itself. Then Angel gripped Spike’s shoulder and shoved him around, pushed him on his back. Furious, Angel squatted above him, held Spike’s shocked chest down with one hand while the other, fingers dripping with lotion, reached behind to prep himself. “You wanna fuck somebody?” he hissed. And with one swift downward motion he thrust Spike’s cock balls-deep inside.

Spike stared up at the determined face of Angel; his shock giving way to awe. No cherry bunghole, Angel’s. Angelus had taken his pleasure this way as well as the other. Bastard could make you feel insignificant just as well with his arse as he could his cock.

Angel’s eyes, angry, viper-smooth, held Spike’s in check. Kept him silent. “That’s right. Look at me,” Angel whispered, but Spike heard it as loud as anything.

And his cock...it was as if God had taken his iron fist and wrapped it in a velvet glove--gripping, punishing, glorious. Wasn’t long before he felt that rising, the past rising up here on this floor. “Please,” he whined, “Da.” And softly again, “Da.”

Angel, rhythm not slowing, reached down, stroked Spike’s chest, and simply said, “Will.”

And, oh fuck, with no warning, Spike came.

Angel took his time. Stroked himself slowly with that sure hand of his. “Will,” he said again and sprayed himself all over Spike’s chest. He stared down, gaze still locked, for several seconds, before lifting himself off of Spike and rolling onto the floor next to him.

Spike floated in that free-fall, that false euphoria, for a bit. Wanted to stretch it out. But he couldn’t. Always had to bugger it up with his mouth. “See, Angel, that’s just the problem. We never talk.”

And beside him, he felt Angel giggle. Giggle, mind you. Felt that giggle shoot up into wild laughter. His arm vibrated with it. Laughed himself, for a bit. But then that laughter turned into something else. Something that neither man acknowledged until finally Spike just said, “Shhhh, it’s alright. Goin’ to be alright.” Rolled over and gripped Angel’s head into his shoulder. “Shhhh, now, shhhh.”

Soon, Angel quieted so Spike said, “Let’s get you upstairs, yeah?” And they each picked up their clothes and rode up that lift in silence.

And as they walked into Angel’s suite, Spike thought: It’s not just a leg over. Not for him; not for Angel neither. Never was, really. When he followed Angel into the shower and they sudsed up, still silent, Spike knew. You see, there’s no halvsies for him. He’s either in or he’s out. T’weren’t love exactly because they never used words like that between them. But it were something.

Best not to give it a name.


End file.
